Quote

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.

Lord Byron

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Lord Byron
Age: 36 †
Born: 1788
Born: January 22
Died: 1824
Died: April 19
Autobiographer
Baron Byron
Diarist
Librettist
Lyricist
Military Personnel
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron
Noel Byron
Xhorxh Bajroni
Bajron
George Gordon
Jerzy Gordon Byron
Pai-lun
Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Noel
Byron
George Gordon Byron
Baron Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Noël Byron Byron
Bayrěn
Payrěn
George Gordon By
Even
Thee
Idols
Told
Tenderness
Wise
Disguise
Tropes
Eyes
Suit
Wooing
Though
Despise
Humbly
Eye
Suits
Thine
Moving
Proper
Homage
Art
Thou
Idol

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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
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A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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Life is too short for chess.
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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
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But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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